


We Walk

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Creature Fic, Dark, Dean's Soul, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Owls, Psychological Horror, Purgatory, Winged Castiel, not as bad as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4202202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels like a noir movie, Dean muses to himself, stepping over a branch, an Angel and a Vampire at his back—like he should be wearing a suit and a fedora toting around a pistol in his pocket and chain-smoking his lungs away.</p><p>But that’s not where he is—no, he’s stuck in a forest with no way out, trees and bugs flanking him for miles. That, and the owl that keeps showing up on the lowest of tree branches, beady black eyes watching him at every turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Walk

Purgatory is gray.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he has seen this before, but in a different place. Where he once breathed fresh air laced with smoke and gasoline, bled red whenever something cut him or he himself, where he could see in more of a spectrum than monochromatic. Deep, rolling blacks and blinding whites, taupe and sable and gunmetal, once lush green forests dyed in variations of gray. Slowly, memories and flashes of color begin to fade from memory, the greens and reds of leaves and blues of water and the sky replaced with dulled shades. It feels like a noir movie, Dean muses to himself, stepping over a branch, an Angel and a Vampire at his back—like he should be wearing a suit and a fedora toting around a pistol in his pocket and chain-smoking his lungs away.

But that’s not where he is—no, he’s stuck in a forest with no way out, trees and bugs flanking him for miles. That, and the owl that keeps showing up on the lowest of tree branches, beady black eyes watching him at every turn. He doesn't think much of it the first day, more focused with keeping his head on his shoulders and Castiel at his back, Benny covering their path, his ever present whistle offering little comfort amongst the crackle of leaves under their boots.

There’s no sound—no wind to rustle the trees, no birds to caw above his head and chase him down like every other God-forsaken monster there. Save for his steady breaths and crunch of long-dead brush and the swish of wings—actual _wings_ —through stagnant air, nothing makes a noise. It’s disconcerting, the loss of a sense; he jerks with each step, every time someone sighs or something growls around the corner. A nonstop parade, bathed in charcoal and silver, until everything blurs into one and they’re left to wander in the wilderness.

Still, the owl keeps watch. Dean spots it a mile from his first sighting in a tree looming over the riverbank, head following him as he walks, his band of merry monsters in tow. Another mile, another riverbank. A cliffside, a rocky outcropping, in a burrow—it follows him, hooting once and once alone before it turns its head, never once blinking. “Seriously, am I the only one that’s seein’ this?” he asks as the light sets beyond the horizon, bathing the forest in darkness for another night, their only source of illumination the fire that burns between them, Castiel stoking the flames throughout his watch. They’ll need to fight at least once—something always tries to jump them, no matter how high they climb or how deep they walk into the caves.

There’s always something.

“Now ain’t the time t’be hallucinating, Dean,” Benny drawls, honed stone in hand, whittling a branch to a sharp point. Castiel doesn't add to the conversation. “Pretty sure if there were _owls_ here, I’d know.”

“But they’re…” Dean gives up the fight with a sigh; Benny’s been in Purgatory longer than either of them; he knows the lay of the land, every stream and tree and hiding spot—but that doesn't mean he’s _right_. Castiel keeps close during the night, laying a wing over Dean’s body while he watches the fire, flames licking dark shadows across his face, accentuating every crease, his profile standing out in the dark. In the distance, he hears a hoot and knows it’s watching him, waiting.

Dean sleeps under the warmth of a wing and his head on Castiel’s thigh, and none of them speak a word of it.

Four of them are following by the end of the sixth afternoon, shadows lingering between trees by the time they come to rest at the river’s edge. Benny sets up the fire and Castiel cleans his face, hands, a failing attempt to scrub the blood and dirt from his skin. It’s no use, Dean tells him—the next morning, they’ll be covered in faux-red and black, and Castiel will try to rid himself of the taint with feverish intent, like he’s trying to cleanse himself of the lives he took, the souls he devoured. Atone for his sins.

Dean leaves them to their business and wanders off unannounced—he knows the owl’s are near the trail they walked in on, saw the pitch blackness of their eyes following him as he walked, like they were expecting him. _Calling_ for him to follow. Now, he finds them sitting on a low-hanging branch three feet above his head. They’re out of range—even with his blade, he can’t get a good swing at them without one of them going for his wrist. Talking doesn't work, either; they look between one another when he speaks, brandishing the weapon in their direction. One outstretches a wing over half its body length and pats his hand away, hooting obnoxiously after it does so.

So apparently, owls are dicks.

One of the quartet flaps off further down the trail, the remaining trio flying after, only to land on another branch. Dean follows through a series of stops and starts, each time calling after them once they fly away, leading him further and further down the path. He doesn't notice where he’s going, too obsessed with chasing them and finding answers. _Why_ they’re lingering around every corner, _why_ they’re leading him here. Like every other creature in this world, though, they don't answer him—their intent is clear once he finds a cave, the opening not even near tall enough for him to walk through upright. Still, the owls watch him from the rocky floor, the noisiest of them hooting, its voice echoing off the walls.

It’s dark inside, where they lure him to—abysmal. Even the spots on the owl’s backs obscure the farther he goes, his boots squishing in something damp, drips reverberating in his ears. There’s water there, he knows—but how far away is the question.

At some point during the claustrophobic march, he finds himself flat on his back with a blinding white light being ripped from his chest, the crushing weight of talons and feathers perched on his stomach, a beak pecking relentlessly at the ripped patch in his shirt. He must have fallen asleep or been knocked out—probably the latter, considering the pain radiating from his skull. Something is squawking by his ear, pecking a hole in his scalp; a streak pours from the wound, and it’s only then that he realizes what they’re up to. What they led him there for.

And he _screams_.

Two of the creatures latch onto his wrists when he swings, a vain attempt to hurl them into the wall. Out of all the monsters he has ever come in contact with, none of them have tried to steal his _soul_ , especially by boring holes in his body. Something about it is barbaric, the way they claw into him and rip his flesh, talons digging through layers of leather and flannel, wetness seeping between his fingers and into the soaked stone under him. They’re insistent, shrieks resonating with each attack, feathers and beaks hurling him to the ground with relentless force. These are birds—they shouldn't _hurt_ like this.

One rips a strand of white from his chest when he rolls onto his back, swallowing it down. It hurts now that he’s awake, now that he can feel his soul bleeding from his veins into the mouths of the scavengers, each taking turns tending to the wounds they inflicted, various white bursts lighting up the cavern. Every attempt to fight is answered with claws, new holes tearing into his flesh without preamble. This is it—this is how he dies, with owls pecking him to death and stealing his _soul_ in the middle of some cave. Castiel and Benny probably don't even know he’s gone. Castiel would look for him, he knows—Benny would as an afterthought, only because Dean’s of use to him. His free ride home, portal or no.

They feed for what feels like hours, his body long since given up the fight. There’s a hole in his cheek and a tear in his lips, several punctures to his wrists and throat—white mist flows from each, the creatures swallowing him down with pleased cries, their eyes glowing a brilliant blue. Something reflects there, he notices, in the shape of a human—a human with _wings_.

Castiel’s name barely slips his lips before a blaze of Grace burns through the cave, the owls screeching in terror and protest, before they’re reduced to four piles of feathers and individual balls of pulsing silver, all merging into one mass, floating above his chest. He longs to touch it, run his fingers through the current and force it back inside—he can’t lift his hands to do so.

Rushing to his aid, Dean feels Castiel draw him up into his arms, clutching him tight to his chest and speaking in hushed whispers, none of it English. “Hurts,” Dean manages, reaching with bitten fingers to tug at Castiel’s coat, streaking the fabric in unseen red. “Can’t feel—.”

“I can’t heal you until I return your soul to you,” Castiel tells him, urgency in his voice. Dean hopes he can feel his nod under his chin; his body feels cold, what’s left of his soul aching for the other half, curdling at the loss. He wants it back just as bad, mourns the loss of something he has never felt, never thought was so bright. It lights the shared space between them, Castiel caressing it with tender fingers, pressing it to Dean’s chest. Dean swallows and watches, reaching up to run a finger through it, electricity coursing across his skin.

“I never thought I’d touch it again,” he hears Castiel mumble, voice awed as he strokes over the mass, the light curling up to meet him.

Dean only has half a second to contemplate if that’s how his soul acts _all_ the time around Castiel before his chest seizes and he heaves a ragged breath, broken fingers pulling more insistently at Castiel’s coat. “Less talking, more soul-back-in-my-body,” he pants, glaring up into Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel listens without hesitance, pulling Dean closer into his lap and pressing a hand to his chest, his body tingling with the addition of his soul once again, pinpricks springing up across his skin until it settles. Castiel’s hand remains, gentle tingles of his Grace flowing through to close his wounds and reknit his bones, wiping away the blood and leaving him whole again. Flayed and bruised, but alive.

They should leave, he knows; he’s fully capable of moving now, of standing and leaving with Castiel as his guide. They can still make it back to Benny before nightfall, before something finds him and tries to lop off his head. But Benny has survived this long—he can make it another few minutes. “How’d you find me?” Dean asks instead, slumping into Castiel’s arms, his wings wrapping around them both, warm and glowing a light blue between his feathers in the darkness.

“I felt your soul crying out,” Castiel answers, resting his forehead atop Dean’s hair. They breathe together and Dean latches onto it, concentrates on the rhythm until his heart settles. The wetness seeping into his pant legs is less than pleasant, along with whatever has soaked into his jacket. He’ll need to set them by the fire later to dry; maybe he can convince Castiel to let him rest in his wings again, keep him warm in the chill of the night. “You were dying.”

Dean snorts, resting a hand on Castiel’s hip under his coat, tracing the waistband of his scrub pants. “Death by soul sucking birds,” he laughs, lightheaded. “Never figured that’s how I’d go out.”

“I’m glad I got to you in time,” Castiel says, tone mild and mirthful. “…You weren’t lying when you said you saw them. I’m… I apologize, for not believing you.”

“S’okay,” Dean says, fighting back the pain of the words. After all these years, they still can’t completely confide in one another, believe the words that come out of the other’s mouth. One day, it’ll lead them down a wrong path—for now, he lets it slide and sighs, pulling away from Castiel, wings still at his back, never letting him go too far. “’M tired,” he yawns, head low. “…We should head back.”

Castiel nods and helps him stand, wings tucked to his back, still emitting an eerie hue. “Do you want me to—?”

“Stay with me,” Dean finishes for him, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… Kinda don’t wanna be alone right now, y’know?”

He watches Castiel nod again, a smile curling his lips ever so slightly, eyes bright. It may not be an admission, but it’s enough for now. “I’ll watch over you.”

“I know,” Dean says, and takes Castiel’s bare wrist under his coat sleeve, fingers curling tight around warm skin. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Y'know, you'd think I'd spend two hours rewriting my own novel but no, I do this instead. I've wanted to write purgatory forever, and I finally figured out what I wanted to do after seeing something on TV the other day about owls. I don't even remember what it was about. But yeah, here you go! I don't know where this came from, but have some soul-fondling goodness. 
> 
> Title is from the R.E.M. song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
